she can't make it on her own
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: Darcy's life is falling apart, and she is pushing away the one person who can help. [AU - high school]


**.**

_oh, to see without my eyes_

_the first time that you kissed me_

_boundless by the time i cried_

_i built your walls around me_

**.**

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You're doing it again. Stop looking at me like I've just slaughtered your dog in front of you."

"Is that the look I'm giving you? I thought it was more along the lines of an Oliver look. You know, please sir, can I have some more. That kind of look."

"Darcy."

"Natasha," Darcy says in an equally serious tone. Her red-haired, fiery-tempered best friend closes her locker and sighs deeply as if Darcy is an annoying little sister pestering her for attention. As if Darcy needs to be let down easy.

"I can't do it," Natasha repeats for the fifth time that day. The fifteenth time that week. "I don't even like to read. I would be completely out of place."

Darcy pushes off the locker she was resting against and follows Natasha towards the cafeteria. The crowded halls make it difficult for the shorter, stouter girl to keep up, but eventually she reaches Natasha's side. "You read. I've seen you read."

"Unless it's for school, I don't read," she insists, walking into the cafeteria with her head held unusually high.

She's trying to get Steve Rogers to notice her. Which, to be fair, he does. The large football player stares after Natasha like a kind, bumbling dog. But so does every other boy in the vicinity, only their stares are more vicious. More predatory. Truly animal-like.

Steve stands out in the crowd. Not only because of his size—he is at least fifty pounds heavier, all muscle, and two inches taller—but because he's genuinely one of the good guys. And that's what Natasha likes about him. Why she spends her mornings making herself look like the type of girl Steve Rogers would take home to meet his parents.

It's also why he hasn't done just that. He's _too _good in Darcy's opinion. Afraid that he'll burst into flames if he so much as brushes past a girl without her consent.

There is one boy not drooling after Natasha. One boy whose focus is trained on Darcy instead. He isn't a jock—never played a sport in his life, though she happens to know he spends a lot of his off-hours in the school gym. He's more of a troublemaker than the people surrounding him. But he's Steve's best friend, and that's why the others let him sit with them.

As they pass the jock table, Darcy meets his eye for just a second. And it's enough to make her skin burst into goosebumps.

If he's not careful, others will notice.

"But I've seen you read when it isn't for school," says Darcy, rubbing her arms to get rid of the gooseflesh. The girls sit at a table the other end of the cafeteria, but Natasha has made sure Steve can still see her.

Natasha unwraps her cookies and cream flavoured protein bar—which Darcy can say with one-hundred percent accuracy tastes exactly like cardboard—and takes a bite. "Those are history books. Non-fiction. War journals and things like that. It's completely different to the books you read. Mine are straight-forward and factual. Yours take effort to understand."

"But," Darcy sputters, her brain not able to come up with a good counterargument. It's true that Natasha's obsession with history is different than her obsession with English literature. And it's true that analysing _Animal Farm _is different than analysing the works of Herodotus. But Darcy doesn't want to do this alone. "What if no-one else shows up?"

"Please. There are plenty of other book nerds like you at this school. You won't want me dumbing down the place."

Looking around the lunch room, Darcy wonders which other students could have chosen her Lit Club as their after school activity. She put the flyers up earlier in the week, on the first day of school, on every cork board she could find. Every other Friday, she and the others—_please, please let there be others_, she begs—will meet in the AV room nobody uses to discuss and dig deep into the books she spent all summer selecting for the reading list.

English is her last subject on Odd Days for her senior year, which is good. She will be fresh from an atmosphere that encourages a healthy and thoughtful understanding of literature. Mr. Odinson's lectures will prepare her nicely for the following hour.

Provided Darcy's fear is simply that—a fear, not a fact.

"Are you not eating?" Natasha asks, crumpling the protein bar wrapper.

Darcy shakes her head. She's too nervous to eat.

Natasha doesn't argue with Darcy's decision. Instead, she gets up to throw her rubbish away. Only, instead of tossing it in the bin directly behind them, she sashays in her 50s-style black dress towards the table where Steve sits.

She can't help but smile at her best friend's blatancy. She has to give Natasha props. The girl is not afraid of her femininity the way Darcy is. Darcy, who wears crew-neck t-shirts to hide the giant chest her grandmother gave her. The grandmother on her mom's side, who was dead long before Darcy could yell at her for passing on her bad genes. Darcy, who wears her glasses even though her dad caved and let her get contacts when she was fourteen when she believed she was brave enough to use them.

It isn't that she has no confidence. Or that she isn't brave. Or that she thinks Natasha's way of going about life is wrong. She is confident. She is brave. And Natasha's life is great. It boils down to Darcy's fear of rejection. The rejection she faces almost daily from people who are meant to love her.

College is what she keeps telling herself. The second she leaves for college, she will open herself up like Natasha. She will embrace her curves and the lips she thinks are too large. But for now, she will focus on excelling in her final year of high school.

Darcy watches Natasha start a conversation with Steve, but soon her attention moves to the person sitting beside the golden boy. Bucky Barnes. Dark hair, dark blue eyes, dark stubble stamped over his jaw and cheeks. His pink lips pull up to the right when he catches her watching him. She looks quickly away as if she's been found doing something she should not, under any circumstances, be doing.

The bell signalling her lunch period's end sounds off just as her heart settles. Natasha departs the cafeteria with Steve at her side. She turns covertly and mouths _yes_, to which Darcy responds with a lame thumbs-up.

Darcy waits to leave. She waits for Bucky to leave. Only after his shadowy figure disappears out of the doors does Darcy exit the room.

**.**

_now i'm prone to misery_

_the birthmark on your shoulder reminds me_

**.**

3:00, the end of the school day, creeps closer. Excitement and nerves squeezing her insides, Darcy clutches the edges of her desk as Mr. Odinson continues his rant on the "idiotic, closed-minded, atrocious woman" currently trying to ban _To Kill a Mockingbird _from all New York public _and _private schools. The last fifteen minutes of class has been centred around the banning of books in the 21st century. Mr. Odinson calls it a brainless censorship of art which can lead to a suppression of information that has the ability to greatly damage society's development.

Darcy agrees.

She agrees with a lot of what Mr. Odinson, the Nordic godlike man, has to say. He is clever and concise and helpful. It doesn't hurt that he's also one of the most attractive human beings ever to grace this earth.

"But Thor . . ."

Darcy nearly groans out loud. She glares across the room at the source of the interruption. Bucky. A staple in her English classes since the seventh grade.

He looks directly at her, as if not talking to their teacher at all. As if he's really talking to her.

Mr. Odinson leans against his desk and crosses his arms. There is a look of half-amused dread on his face. "Please, James, do not refer to me by my first name," he says. Darcy smiles, turning away from Bucky. He hates it when people call him James. "Now, what is it you have to say?"

"Well, the woman does bring up some good points," Bucky says. Darcy thinks she visibly sees Mr. Odinson's eyes bug.

"And, uh, what would those points be? Do elaborate."

"That there is a lot of racially insensitive language in the book. Should fourteen-year-olds really be exposed to that kind of language? If we aren't allowed to use the words, why are we allowed to read them?"

There's a smugness to Bucky's argument that sets a fire under Darcy. "That's completely besides the point!" she exclaims, twisting her whole body in Bucky's direction. The entirety of the classroom jumps in surprise.

Bucky's neck turns slowly towards her. He cocks his head. A challenge. "What is the point, then? The woman cited racially charged language as the reason for her challenge, didn't she?"

Darcy rolls her eyes. Rolls them so hard it hurts. This is her confidence bursting forth. Her Natasha-level not-giving-a-fuck what others think. "Yes, but that's a stupid reason to challenge the book. These words are still tossed around carelessly by kids who don't know any better. Whose parents don't think to stop with the racist language every once in a while. No book is going to make them use the words more, and taking it away won't make them use them less. The issue isn't books, it's society's continued acceptance of casual racism."

Darcy pauses momentarily to take in a deep breath.

"_To Kill a Mockingbird _is such an important telling of a time when people of colour were treated so, so horribly. It's a testament, a warning. This woman is an idiot if she thinks Lee wrote the book in order to express her secret racial prejudices"— Darcy is rudely cut off by the bell. Its loud clanging noise instantly distracts her classmates.

Everyone scrambles to gather their supplies, racing to the be the first out of the room. Darcy shrinks a little. She was just getting to the best part of her counterargument.

"Don't forget to read the first part of _Beloved _over the weekend. We'll be discussing it in full on Tuesday, and I expect each one of you to talk!" Mr. Odinson's cry goes mostly unheard in the rush, but Darcy is still sitting even when everyone else has disappeared. Her English teacher pushes off from his desk and comes over to Darcy. "You know he only says those things to get a rise out of you, Darcy. Why do you let him toy with you like that?"

It's true, of course. Bucky Barnes has enjoyed mocking Darcy's adoration for books since they met. The whole school knows of the incident in the 9th grade when they were arguing over the most important theme in _The Great Gatsby_. It is the only time Darcy has ever been sent to the principal's office.

"Hey, it's not my fault," Darcy complains, shoving her books inside her backpack, "he's so good at pushing my buttons. I can't help being passionate about books. He, on the other hand, can most certainly help being such a dick."

Mr. Odinson laughs. "I'm not so sure about that." He looks at his watch. "Aren't you late for your first Lit Club meeting?"

In the heat of her outburst, Darcy had managed to forget why she had been terrified and eager for the bell to ring. She stands immediately, startling Mr. Odinson.

_Shit_. Late on her first day. Not a good impression.

"Right. Perfect." Darcy slings her backpack on and walks towards the door. "And I'll have those chapters read by Tuesday, Mr. Odinson."

He smiles at her and she has to fight not to melt. Blonds are her weakness. "How many times have you read _Beloved_, Darcy?"

"Um . . ." she says sheepishly, "this will be my, let's see . . . this will be my seventh time."

"Go to your meeting," Mr. Odinson dismisses, that breathtaking smile still on his face. He shoos her away with his left hand which has recently taken on a golden band.

"Bye, Mr. Odinson," calls Darcy as she marches with false positivity in the direction of her locker. Once she's grabbed her itinerary for the hour and the lunch bag filled with snacks she's too sick to even look at, she heads for the AV room.

When she reaches the door, she wonders how many people are waiting for her. How many are as hopeful as her to for a life-changing literary journey.

Three people? Five? Ten would be preferable, but she will be okay with less.

She is caught wholly off guard when the door swings open and the only person inside the small, windowless AV room is Bucky Barnes. He sits in the chair directly opposite the door, in the circle of chair she set up during her free period. He's taken off his sweater to reveal a _Beatles _shirt.

Her favourite band.

Darcy's grip on the door handle tightens. Mainly to stop herself collapsing. She frowns, her entire face bunching. "What the hell are you doing here?" she spits. "This is the room for my Lit Club. Get out."

"Aw," he mewls, like a fucking cat, pouting his full lips, "but the posters you scattered all around the school said it was open to anyone and everyone."

Releasing the door handle, Darcy wobbles into the room. The door slams shut behind her. "Didn't you read the fine print? It names you as the only exception."

"I've got a picture."

"A what?" Darcy stops just short of reaching him. She is so short that their eyes are nearly level even when he's sitting. His are filled with mischief.

"I had a feeling you'd try kicking me out, so I brought proof that you can't. This is a school club. You can't exclude me," he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He fiddles with it and shows Darcy a picture of one of the many posters she put up earlier in the week. "I'm not afraid to go to Principal Coulson with this."

"Yeah, well," flounders Darcy, knocking Bucky's hand down, "it's _my club_. I can do whatever I want, and I don't want you here."

His eyes swerve around the room. "Maybe. But without me, you'll be all alone."

Darcy follows his eyes, her chest burning. Her stomach filling with large-winged butterflies.

Nobody else is there.

"Did you scare the others away?" she accuses. "You're such an ass, Bucky. You don't even like books! Why are you here? To torture me?"

"Right, because I live to make your life miserable."

"It sure as hell seems that way right now. We have a rule, you know, and you're currently breaking it."

Bucky's eyes narrow into small slits. He looks like a snake ready to unhinge its jaws and attack. Darcy swallows thickly. Those butterflies are fluttering frantically up her oesophagus. "_Frankenstein_ is up first, yes?" he asks. He reaches blindly down, pulling something from his backpack. "Because I've got my favourite copy right here. It was my grandfather's. He loved this book. Read it to me dozens of times when I was a kid." He holds up the copy. Its tattered pages briefly distract Darcy.

"But in class," she says helplessly.

Bucky sighs. "Yeah, I fool around a lot in class. It's fun to ruffle your feathers," he says, and Darcy's throat closes around the butterflies as her skin flares. "But ask any English teacher and they'll tell you I've gotten straight As all my life in the subject. And about the rule being broken." He stands slowly, tauntingly, putting the book carefully on the seat beside his as he gets to his full height. "You've been dodging my calls all week. I'm getting desperate here."

"Bucky," she says, his name trembling in her ears.

"Darcy," he mimics. He bends down. His face gets closer and closer and closer to hers with each passing second. "If you want me to stop, I'll stop."

She wants him to stop. The rule—they're breaking the rule. The one rule they agreed upon two years ago.

But she doesn't actually want him to stop. She isn't strong enough to want him to stop.

Shaking her head, she throws her arms around his neck to speed up the process and kisses him. She gasps as their lips touch, as if surprised by her own boldness, and he takes advantage of her open mouth. His warm tongue slides between her teeth and tangles with her own. He tastes like apples.

How does he always taste like apples?

Darcy's heart races. It pounds against her ribs. She knows he can hear it. Feel it. She knows, because she can hear and feel his.

His burning hand reaches underneath the hem of her red shirt. Fingers grip the flesh of her hip and trace upwards towards the band of her bra. Now would be the time to tell him to stop. If that was what she wanted.

Darcy keeps her mouth shut. No, she keeps it open. But she turns off her brain as Bucky pulls away from her for just a moment in order to tear her shirt off. Her glasses fly off, but she doesn't care. It's better when she can't quite see him. It helps ease the guilt that will surely hit later.

Next goes his shirt, then they're both scrambling to unbutton the other's jeans while simultaneously toeing off their shoes and stealing sloppy, wet kisses. He ticks her zipper down first. Whooping quietly in success, Bucky picks her up and takes her to one of the desks she shoved to the back of the room earlier. He lays her down. Gently.

He's so gentle. And so soft. Rough boys like him shouldn't be so soft.

Bucky smiles at her. It's a mixture of a smile. There's triumph in it. Teasing, because as he shoves down her jeans and her pants, he brushes the pad of his thumb against the soft apex of her thighs, making her squeal. And there's happiness too.

That's the part she can't bear to look at. So, she kisses that smile, closing her eyes as she hears him rip open the condom wrapper. Sighing in relief, gripping the short strands of his hair so tight she's worried they'll snap, as he enters her.

**.**

_the first time that you touched me_

_oh, will wonders ever cease_

_blessed be the mystery of love_

**.**

He's a good lover. He lets her come first. He _makes sure_ she comes first. Even when that's not necessarily what she's after, he works overtime to get her there. That afternoon is no different. And this time, she's chasing it. Hips rising to meet his, toes curled, mind empty of everything except how good this feels, she unravels in his arms. Seconds later, he lets out a soft groan, his face buried in the crook of her neck, and he collapses on top of her.

Stroking the sodden ends of his hair, Darcy stares up at the AV room ceiling. The florescent lights hurt her eyes. She keeps her eyes open as the light singes her retinas, and when she blinks bursts of purple light scatter across the ceiling.

Bucky kisses her neck. Slipping out of her, he carefully removes the used condom and reaches for something next to Darcy's head. A tissue. He folds the tissue over the condom and tosses it at the bin near the door. When it goes in, he turns to her, grinning.

God, he's beautiful. Especially when he's happy. She forgets that about him when they spend too long apart.

Bucky pulls up his jeans and puts his shirt back on before gathering the scattered items belonging to Darcy and handing them to her. She thanks him and hops off the desk. Dressing quietly, she begins to feel that familiar pit of regret blossom in her belly.

"I'm sorry no-one else showed up," he says, collecting Darcy's glasses from the floor and putting them on her face. He cups her cheeks. "I was fully prepared to have a conversation about _Frankenstein_, but when nobody else appeared . . ." He trails off, kissing her softly.

Darcy keeps her eyes open. "Yeah, no. I get it," she says as their lips separate. She puts on a smile. "If you want to keep showing up here, though, I do think we should designate some time to actual Lit Club activities."

"Clit club?" he says mockingly, releasing her face.

"Yes. That is exactly what I said."

"What sort of Lit Club activities are we talking about?"

Darcy slips her shoes on. "You know, proper stuff. Analysing the themes. Passages. Talking about how the interpretations of certain novels has changed over the years. Like, how Richardson's _Pamela _was once taken by feminists in the 70s and regarded as true feminist literature, but now women like to burn it for its misogyny and rape-y-ness." She zips up her backpack with the uneaten snacks still inside. She turns to Bucky still standing by the desk. He'll clean it once she's gone. "Things like that," she says.

"Not things like this." He points between them and the desk.

The regret grows another stalk. "Not like that," she agrees. "We can't do that again. The rule, Bucky."

"The rule," he acknowledges. "Now run along before someone catches us in the same room together."

Darcy bids him goodbye and leaves the room, searching in her backpack for her keys.

The rule.

She remembers the day they came up with it. After the third time. Back then, she saw their encounters as mistakes. Repeated mistakes. But you can only make so many mistakes before they start looking purposeful. Feeling purposeful.

_We can't be seen together_, she had said.

_But we go to school together_. _People see us together all the time_. _We even have class together_.

_Then_, _we can't be seen together in a situation where it looks like we might be something_.

_Something_, he had said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. _What does that mean_?

_It means people have to think we don't like each other_. _People can't catch on_.

It had taken him a long time to agree.

Since the rule had been founded, she always made sure she followed it. Bucky was the troublemaker. The one who forgot. She figured it was because he enjoyed seeing her squirm in a situation where she could do nothing lest she be the one breaking the rule.

But today, they were both at fault. Anyone could have walked in. She hadn't remembered to lock the door.

Inside her car, Darcy switches to the AUX cable and plugs in her phone. _Abbey Road_ instantly starts playing. Humming along to "Come Together," Darcy drives home in a puddle of guilt.


End file.
